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Vladimir and Estragon


The day is bathed in the uneasy light 

of irreverence. It's like this each day—

the day dressing in a form 


it's been given; or, rather, 

falling into it without thought,

as if it were a calling. I want 


to call upon a bird 

to fill in the empty spaces. 

I want this to be about wingspan 


and instinct, about how a bird finds

shelter in the green leaves of a lilac bush.

How it waits. Have you ever noticed


how things wait; how 

a cat skulks at the perimeter, 

moving nothing? Even when no leaf


lifts, he waits. An experiment, 

that began years ago, observes 

coal tar pitch fall, one drop 


at a time, once every decade. 

The cat waits, the day buttons 

itself into whatever cloak 


it's handed, the bird holds

its breath in the thicket. Coal tar pitch

gathers into a tear and waits.






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